


Only an Honest Death Will Cure You Now

by Royalrastafariannaynays



Series: Truly Wild Curiosity, Isn't It? [2]
Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Bloodplay, Breathplay, F/F, Female Hunter, Filthy, Guro, Light Sadism, Masochism, Vaginal Fingering, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 07:57:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6696415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Royalrastafariannaynays/pseuds/Royalrastafariannaynays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maria waits, and watches, and she still notices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only an Honest Death Will Cure You Now

**Author's Note:**

> I got a LOT of requests for more, so here's a sequel/continuation of "I'll Liberate You From Your Wild Curiosity". Hope y'all like it!

Maria listens, and watches. 

She has seen many a hunter go by, go mad, run beneath along the pool and take their addict’s blood from their pockets. Mad. They run from enemies, feint back into their grasp, and then heads roll off the steps. Mad. They come to her, and she ends their suffering.

Screams echo distantly in the old halls. Hunters cry out as their skin is boiled by acid traps. Hunters yell in pain as they attempt to slay the monsters that have become of the ones no one could cure. The ones that have stopped being fed. The ones that begin to turn on each other in the absence of new meat. As if they still need to eat. 

One hunter seems to give up at the top of one of the staircases. He stands there, transfixed in horror by the mass of writing, bulbous flesh and too-stretched skin. The mass that whispers about water, and drips, and drops. She sings softly, too softly. The male hunter cannot move, for all his horror. He will not make it to the tower. Maria retreats to her seat, to listen to the clock that ticks away her time in this wretched place.

\--

It is during a long, long night that Maria hears the rending of flesh once more. She had given up on the idea of being disturbed again, resigned to her chair, her clock, her picture frame. Through the bare, broken floorboards comes the groaning of the staircase as it is risen. A great shuddering affects the clock-tower, and Maria’s head once more lifts from where it is bowed into her chest. 

She strokes her thumb across the hilt of Rakuyo. Maybe it will taste blood again, after all. Petals crunch under her feet, dry and disintegrating beneath the soles of her boots. Dust and ash fall in a cascade from her shoulders, and the brim of her hat as she moves. Her body seems to creak with the motions, complaining of her movement and the eternal decay of her skin.

Striding out of the doors, past the great hulking white beast that leers at her with the universe in its hands, past the sunflowers, past the bookshelves and the broken beds and the hallways. To be clever enough to move the stairs, this hunter must be destined to reach the tower.

She stops at the banister, and leans over to examine her newest predator. 

The Hunter is covered in blood and slime, the brain fluid dripping off of their coat lapels, pooling on the floor, and flecking onto the thick coat of dust on the stairs. When they turn to examine the now-dead male hunter’s body, and Maria sees their face, she is almost surprised. A woman, tall, with long black hair and a wide, but gently-sloped nose. This is all she can see of her face, through the mask. 

The surprise in itself is perturbing for the Lady Maria. She doesn’t know what she expected. A member of the church? Someone like Ludwig? This hunter is wearing familiar clothes… was Maria expecting an old man like Gehrman?

Oh, Gehrman. 

Simply thinking his name fills Maria with a fiery anger, but she cannot leave this place. She cannot leave this nightmare, can do nothing about the things that he has done. If anyone should need killing… he would be it. His hands on her, playful. Not so playful. The Doll. Oh, that Doll. That cursed, blasted, fucking Doll.

One Hunter that came to her, for his final fight, had looked at her with a kind of familiarity, a kind of shock, before his gaze became predatory, and his cheeks filled with the subtle blood of arousal.

The banister creaks, and shatters under her grip. 

The Hunter, down below, hears her. The Hunter’s entire body freezes, and in a split second she has her cleaver extended. Maria just barely manages to move out of sight before the Hunter’s head makes the full turn around in her direction. Ten minutes of silence ring the air, only punctuated by the shouts of a patient below. 

Eventually the Hunter moves again. The mutated mass on the ground is singing at her gaily, eagerly. The Hunter sighs through her teeth, and with a great swing, the singing is silenced. Maria would weep for the girl, if she could. For now, she watches, eyes narrowed. Just as the mass is struck to shreds, the Hunter is mobbed by a group of patients. Their bodies claw at her, tearing at her clothing and slashing wildly. The Hunter barely survives. 

No. This hunter is nothing like Gehrman. Her skin is too soft-looking, too young, despite the scars, the set of her mouth not yet grim enough for the task ahead.

Maria turns, and begins her calm walk back to her chair, to wait, by that ticking, tocking, ticking clock. The Hunter shan’t make it to the tower. 

\---

Maria was never this wrong before.

The Hunter is still there, pressed to her chest, grasping wetly at the notches of her belt and the turn of her hip. Maria lets her hand slide down from the Hunter’s waist to curve over her backside. And what a supple backside it is, she finds, as her fingers trace the wrinkle at the very top of her thigh, where the fabric has creased from wear. 

Her fingers squeeze the muscle in passing, and the brave Hunter gasps against her skin, almost slouching. That same deft palm spreads, and Maria rakes her nails down the thigh before clenching it tightly and hiking the leg up, and around her waist. The Hunter makes a noise of complaint as some part of the fabric in her trousers tears with the strain, but it morphs into a noise that’s entirely different.

Rakuyo’s sheath hilt presses into the apex of the Hunter’s thighs and she makes a resistant grunt, one fist flying forward. Maria braces for a punch, waiting for the knuckles to drive into her skull. She would let the Hunter hit her. It wouldn’t hurt. 

But the hit doesn’t come. The Hunter’s hand is, instead, winding into a death-grip on the silken ruffles of Maria’s cravat, almost holding her like the loving embrace of a noose. Her hips twinge forward into the sheath like she needs the pressure, and the most… _interesting_ whine comes quietly from the back of her throat. Like fury and merciless want had a lovechild, messily, and it spat from the base of her farthest molar. 

“It must be so… titillating to be mortal,” Maria hums. The Hunter whines again, a little louder this time, pants against her shoulder. 

She thinks. This fight has turned. It’s so completely different, now. Not a fight, at all. 

After a moment of thought, she brings up her free hand, across the Hunter’s chest and to her shoulder. The Hunter sucks in a breath in anticipation, not putting up any resistance at all, anymore. Maria carefully pulls her index and middle finger through it again, the deep hole. The warmth, the pulse of it… the Hunter gasps out her breath as Maria’s gloved middle finger catches on the rim of the wound. The slick leather pops out with the barest noise, flicking blood back onto Maria’s coat. 

The bullet’s rut weeps, the dust she’s just put in it sliding sinuously back out. The Hunter groans, and Maria drags the coat shoulder back before pushing her fingers in again. Her fingertips just slip in, down to the muscle that she can feel jumping against her hand, and her right hand grips the thigh around her waist, pulling the Hunter in even closer. 

Insatiable, the Hunter moves her leg to grip Maria’s hip on her own, the heel of her boot pressing into Maria’s thigh. 

“Oh, how delicious,” Maria says, and the Hunter spits a curse at her. Her teeth have blood on them, too, from the fingers she’d taken so willingly into her mouth. 

A carnal vindictiveness jolts through Maria, and she grins, once more dipping her chin to frame the Hunter’s lips with her own, but not even bothering to kiss her, yet. 

The Hunter’s breath tastes divine. 

Musk of life, the deep boil of saliva and blood, and the barest hint of perfume. The oxygen in the Hunter’s lungs makes Maria shake to inhale, shivering against the body before her shamelessly. Oh, that breath. The taste of the living, so close to her. 

The Hunter’s left hand, the one not gripping her cravat, is flexing weakly, impatiently. 

“Now, now,” Maria whispers against the Hunter’s too-willing mouth, “That just won’t do.”

The fingers in the bullet hole tear out cruelly, only serving to make the Hunter groan deep, again. The Hunter’s hat is cast off by the now free hand, shorn from her. She freezes, tensing, for some reason not expecting that turn. When Maria rips out the tie on her hair, however, she nearly whines again. It’s positively decadent.

Black hair, badly trimmed and matted with blood, gets wound around a hand and yanked, forcing the Hunter to bear her neck. Maria turns the Hunter, then, slamming her into one of the nearby shelves with no regard for her well-being. Panting, shouting in protest, the Hunter tries to push her away in shock. She almost succeeds, but Maria is faster. Her left glove is peeled off with her teeth and cast aside, and her nails are sharp against the Hunter’s scalp as she yanks at her hair again. 

“I said,” Maria murmurs, leaning in to press her mouth under the Hunter’s chin, “That just…”

The Hunter’s crown hits the shelf behind her, and she struggles to find purchase on the floor as Maria shoves her leg harder between the two strong thighs. 

“…won’t do.”

The Lady kisses the front of the bared throat. Her teeth drag on it, too cold to belong to anyone living. No relaxing for this one. She came to the steps, she entered the tower, and She kept coming back. She will suffer her own consequences. 

The Hunter gives another small, hungry noise, her hips rolling forward. It’s too much for her, the poor dear. 

“Oh what the blood has done to you, Brave Hunter. What kind of…” she licks that throat, tasting the salt of sweat and sweet, sweet skin. 

“… depraved creature…” 

Her teeth skim around the neck, find an earlobe, and bite, hard.

“… have you become?” 

The Hunter moans.

“Please…” she says. The first coherent word since she entered Maria’s tower. 

Maria moves her mouth just below the ear and bites even harder, without even the grace of a kiss to pave the way. The taste of iron on her tongue is heaven. The Hunter twitches bodily, moaning again, like some tawdry whore. 

That wet burn from the seeping wound pulses when she shoves two fingers into it once more. There’s resistance, but not enough to stop her exploration. The Hunter nearly weeps when she withdraws. The heat, the dripping, cloying heat. She must have more. It warms her cold flesh, sparks at her skin even through layers of fabric. 

Using her body to hold the Hunter in place, Maria descends upon her. Like she’s been suffocating, the Hunter finally breathes when Maria’s plush lips find her own. Finally. Maria’s mouth clamps down and pulls at the foreign set of lush pillows of skin, gasping in the sudden surprised outflow of breath from the living lungs. Teeth and tongue war in the Hunter’s mouth, and Maria feels her trying, and failing to keep up. 

The rhapsody is so _potent_ in the air, now, reeking impossibly into Maria’s senses, throwing her guard to the dogs as she seeks out more warmth. The mouth isn’t enough. The wound isn’t enough. Suddenly the very inhalation of the Hunter unnerves her, irritates at her needs and wants, and she finds herself gripping the Hunter’s throat with her bare hand. 

And of course this does nothing but assure that the Hunter gasps even more. 

She chokes on a delirious moan, body rippling too easily against Maria’s own. 

It reminds Maria.

When she was alive, she remembers… sodden heat, burning pleasure. Where was that? It was – 

Oh, _yes._

Not releasing her right hand from the flexing, continually swallowing column, she removes her bare left from the long, dark hair. A completely unacceptable noise of complaint grumbles from within the Hunter’s chest, and Maria stops her movements entirely. Withdrawing her mouth, depriving herself of that addicting breath, she waits. The Hunter’s eyes flicker open, dazed and glazed and practically unaware of reality. 

Maria’s left hand stops at the Hunter’s chest, and she slips it briefly into the bloodied waistcoat. Her ring finger passes over the peak of a breast, and the Hunter twitches again. As if a cloud has come and gone, the Hunter’s eyes steadily come to a further alertness. She gasps around the fingers on her windpipe, whines again. Lewd, high, plaintive. 

It’s all Maria needs to go for her belt. Not releasing her bleak gaze, she very unceremoniously whips the belt from the Hunter’s trousers. The Hunter’s eyes are wide as the buttons are undone, and serve to only widen further, feral, as Maria’s cool bare hand descends into the sodden wash. 

A single finger drawn along the damp slit, and the Hunter is lost to her once more. Head thrown back in a throe of need, crashing sharply into the shelf behind her, eyes hooded and dark with sinful harmony. Oh, and the wet. The blaze on her fingers. As if she’s never felt warmth like this, Maria buries two digits greedily into the hot agony between the Hunter’s legs. 

Absently, her attention finds the bullet hole again. She cannot satisfy this craving with one hand, alone, and she tears the other of her gloves off her impatient palm. Once freed, the middle and ring fingers of her right hand thrust, gentle, into the throbbing orifice of her own creation. Oh, and the rapture of it. 

Like the singing of a violin, the Hunter loses her control, her grip on the cravat tightening until her knuckles crack under the pressure. Her other hand hangs limp as Maria prods into the tissue that helps the limb move, scrapes the lead ball within, and her noises of ecstasy are the sweetest water on dry lips.

Maria doesn’t forget about her left hand, however, pressing and withdrawing and pressing and withdrawing, tracing lines across the sensitive point where the soaked folds meet. The Hunter is shattered into a thousand stars, writhing on Maria’s hand and ripping holes in the air with her high-rent keens. 

Maria feels a stir deep within, moving violently forward into the Hunter’s body, the present closeness with her inner fire not _enough._ She needs to feel it, needs that pulsating headache herself, needs that breath again, that life, that blissful anguish of her every nerve ending. Her fingers skate out of the bullet hole, catching punishingly on the rim.

The Hunter comes completely undone. Unleashing a high wail, she convulses against Maria’s firm torso, and then creases, limp, against the bookshelf. 

An animalistic noise comes from Maria’s own tonsils as she slips her now sloppy, sticky hand from the Hunter’s oozing cunt. 

“Did I say you could do that?” Maria whispers, dark, leaning in, to grace the cusp of the Hunter’s ear once more with her teeth. The Hunter can only whimper weakly, body curling, still seeming famished, against Maria’s. 

“You’re insatiable,” Maria says. 

Maria’s bare hand soon finds itself wedged between two ribs. The Hunter gasps as her bones are wrenched apart, spine rolling in a morbid facsimile of pleasure. Or maybe it is still pleasure. It makes no difference to a corpse. 

Maria can feel it better, there, the heart, thrumming too fast, like a rabbit. When she runs her fingertips across it, it skips. The Hunter’s eyes are wide, her cheeks still flushed with passion, as she looks down at the arm protruding from her chest. She stutters over one syllable, unable to speak, and Maria sighs happily against her lips. Yes, this heat. This wonderful, wonderful heat, like a wildfire in her palm. 

The Hunter’s body convulses again, starting at the center of her sex and working its way along her torso and limbs, a noise of the purest gratification tearing from her chest. 

Maria takes the heart delicately in her grasp. 

And rips it out.

**Author's Note:**

> yo yo yooooooo hahahahahhaa 
> 
> yw
> 
> kudos and comment if you like what you see dudes!!! lemme know!!!!!!


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